Human
by blackmoore11
Summary: As much as he hates to admit it. As much as he tries to escape it. Ten-year-old Huey Freeman is in fact, Human. Songfic to X-Amount Of Words by: Blue October


Throughout my life... I guess you could say that I have seen my share of really terrible things. I understand that this gives me no excuse for my actions. Nor am I trying to justify them with this truth. Prehaps I should back up...

_**X-Amount of Words  
Blue October  
Foiled**_

My name is Huey Freeman. I am ten years old. I live with my younger brother, Riley, and my granddad, Robert, in the town of Woodcrest. I can't say that I exactly remember my parents. They are long gone. Mom passed away shortly after Riley was born. And dear old dad just kindof left I guess.

I attend J. Edgar Hoover Elementary School where I am a straight A student. I can't say that I have a lot of friends... there was Cairo... But that's a different story in itsself. There's Caesar. And...Jazmine...I guess...

My name is Huey Freeman. I am ten years old. And I am a masochist.

_**The Boondocks  
Aaron McGruder**_

I stared at myself in the mirror. The reflection of the mahogany eyes stared through me in an eerie, but familiar way. In Chicago I had learned quick that emotion was just another tool that could be manipulated by your peers, your family, and your subconsicous. So I easily disposed of them. If only I would have known it would lead to this. Part of me insists that had he known, he would have stayed the innocent and purile child that I once was. The larger, stereo-typical part of me; however, knowns that that's bull shit. That I would much rather lock myself quietly in my room than roam the streets like Riley does.

Dressed in nothing from the waist up, I allow my eyes to slide shut. I take a deep breath. Immediately I can feel the un-hesitated ache in my lower stomach. The ache returns three more times before I allow my eyes to slide open. My stomach aches as it is already bruising. Uncurling my tightened fist, my palm is cut from my nails.

If my body would let me smile, I would. It's just like killing two birds with one stone.

_**Relapse prevent, trigger intent  
Now drown, high strung say x amount of words  
Your solar, bipolar panic disorder  
Seems harder and harder and harder  
Still you try to control it  
You mold, you mold, yeah you shape to mold  
Oh, you're bold, you're bold, but your shape is bold  
You're a symptom superficial  
To what they call knowing you  
Minus the speed, could you imagine the phobia?  
**_

I consider myself a smart person. I am smart enough to know that cutting is far too obvious. Pink scars on dark skin? Have you people lost your minds? My ways are more practical. Easier to make excuses for. Riley hit me last night. Not me. Never.

I am also an individual. I am not your stereo-typical masochist. First of all, I'm not a caucasian, teenage, bisexual cutter. Masochism is defined by a any form of self-harm. This can even include the prevention of wound healing. Simple things such as that. Simple things that everyone is too ignorant to notice.

Hair pulling is another example that people seem to overlook. I nod as I decorate my arm with the silver adhesive. Again, my eyes close. If I don't see it happen. It's easier to deny the fact that it's myself doing this. No one has proof that I have a problem. Not even myself. Therefore, I don't.

The back of my arm is burning all the way up to the elbow. Stings prick the now empty hair folicles. Endorphins sprint up to my shoulder. The only emotion I have allowed myself to feel. Adreneline._****_

Oh, we're recording  
Oh, we're recording  


There are many different outlets that people find helpful in dealing with stress, anxiety, or the temptation of masochism. These range quite widely. They can be stationary activities such as listening to music or drawing or writing out there emotions. Others, like myself, prefer more physical activites. Well known examples are kick-boxing, screaming, or going on walks. I run.

The bitter cold wind blowing through my hair and rustling my minimal clothing that is innapropriate for the temperature. Running into the wind is the best. It's like the world. You have to fight everything that is holding you back and pushing you down. The faster you run, the harder your struggles become. No one ever said life would be easy.

When I finally stop. My muscles are burning. My lungs have been crushed. My skin is completely numb. It's just the opposite than what I usually feel. It's like seeing everything through a different perspective. I guess you could say it excites me...

_**  
Your brain is faulty wiring, the reason for tiring  
Keep treating the curse, imagine the worst  
Systematic, sympathetic, quite pathetic  
Apologetic, paramedic, your heart is prosthetic  
A plate of quite peculiar on a dish of my own  
A tablespoon of feather, tickle me to the bone  
Give me recipes for happy with the chemicals gone  
Drinking freedom from a bottle to the tune of belong**_

But you know, it's not always cold out. What about days that it's warmer out? The weather is unbearable hot. They say the heat causes people to do crazy things. I suppose I'm no different from everyone else. As much as I hate to admit it. I'm one of them.

I still stroll or sprint through the neighboorhood. The burning asfauhlt hard on my bare feet. It is inevitable to run over sharp rocks. Or broken glass bottles from our neighboor's party the night before. Maybe Granddad's right. I should be more careful and watch where I'm going.

_**  
Oh, we're recording (I only want to be)  
Oh, we're recording, we're recording (I can't believe)  
Oh! (I only want to see)  
Oh! (I can't believe)  
Maybe (I only want to see)  
Oh!  
**_

They say that every two point eight seconds, a child dies of starvation or a preventable illness. Here in America, we gorge ourselves until we are about to burst. Then trash our remaining food, or throw it out to the neighboorhood wildlife. Driven by the sin of Gluttony, we do not see that we are virtually committing a murder to these children that under any circumstance, could easily be compared to my brother and I.

Some call it a hunger strike against this tradgedy. Others call it a cry for attention. A handful call it annorexia nervosa. I call it masochism.

The pain one feels in their stomach after not eating. The roll of your abdomen as your digestive organs attempt to eat themselves or shrink from lack of use. Not only is it pain, but it is impossible to ignore. Not only does this give myself the satisfaction of a masochistic release, but it is a constant reminder that I am still alive.

I am a living, breathing, hopeless, human.

_**  
I'm sick of shaking, never waking  
From the hell I achieve  
I never knew you till you left me  
With the crying disease  
Another curing, reassuring way to buckle the knees  
So mistreated, I repeated, never blessing your sneeze  
Now deleted and defeated, I will stand on my own  
Yeah, your memory that punches me  
Has broken the bone  
Give me recipes for sorry, I'm admitting I'm wrong  
Still your memory that punches me  
Has broken the bone  
**_

I had been living off of various energy drinks lately to keep me going, and instant breakfast drinks to compensate for my lost weight and nutrition. I have never gone this long without eating.

I needed some form of a release more frequently. Hits weren't hard enough. And it is difficult to force asthma attacks on oneself during school. I quickly turned to another outlet loophole. They say wearing a band around your wrist and snapping it helps. The first day I came home from school with bruises and welts. I guess I forgot the word gently in the outlet's description...

But my body is demanding so much more than that now. It appears that all of my emotions are finally catching up to me. Anger and frusteration at the ignorant people around me, even my own family at times. The bitterness, despair, and sorrow I feel for my own people. The hoplessness and terror when I am so easily ignored and pushed aside like I am the one that is crazy.

I have still yet to find my happiness.

_**  
Oh, we're recording (I only want to see)  
Oh, we're recording, we're recording (I can't believe)  
Oh, we're recording (I only want to see)  
Oh, we're recording, we're recording (I can't believe)  
Maybe (I only want to see)  
Maybe (I only want to see)  
(Thank you very much, have a good night)  
(Thanks so much)**_

I never thought I would resort to this. Anything but this.

I find myself leaning up against the locked bathroom door. A ripped and mangled empty can of Full Throttle lays a few inches from me. The cheap aluminum no longer silver or blue, but dark red.

I hold my arms close to my chest. If I keep my eyes closed, then when I open them, it will all be gone. But they're not. Countless insisions run along both of my wrists. An unfamiliar crimson liquid pours from most of them. My shirt is now stained.

The cuts sting, making my insides warm again. I wipe my eyes with the heel of my hand, smearing blood on my face as well. A realization hits me. This is the greatest release I have ever had.

As the bloodstained apendages stare up at me, an even more unfamiliar feeling fills me. For the first time in my recelection, a genuine smile plays on my face. Cutting is my happiness. I guess I'm not so original. But for some human reason, I'm content with that.

My name is Huey Freeman. I am ten years old. And I am a masochist.

_**Human  
blackmoore11**_


End file.
